


Inspiration

by Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Series: Kindling [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Frottage, Naked Female Clothed Male, POV Third Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Podfic Welcome, The Helmet Stays On, Touch-Starved, Vaginal Fingering, oh no we thought we were having sex but now there's feels, setting: six years before the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: "You going to be thinking about this later?" she breathes, voice trembling when his right hand slides down over her stomach, slips under the waistband of her underwear.He doesn't answer, and it is hard to think about anything else apart from the slow trail his fingers are making over her skin."At length," he finally answers, not quite hitting the laconic tone he might have been aiming for. He groans softly. "And in great detail."
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Kindling [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584163
Comments: 144
Kudos: 1287





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The woman wakes with a jolt, hearing the last echoes of her voice reverb against the metal bulkhead plates of the small spaceship. 

Oh  _ fuck _

She's a guest on this ship, a temporary passenger who did a Mandalorian a favour while he was looking for his bounty. When that had left her in an untenable position on her planet he'd offered her passage to another planet of her choice. 

Mandalorians were little more than violent legend on that backwater rock before this one arrived—and probably even more of a legend now he's left. Mysterious armoured strangers, always helmeted, dropping out of the sky to abduct some prominent figure with a past nobody had ever asked about. Like her dirtbag former boss, now frozen in carbon in the storage area. In legends these Mandalorians usually left behind a bodycount. 

This one, in his worn brown armour, had at least been careful to avoid injuring bystanders, even though that had put him at a disadvantage. And when he'd noticed that his pursuers were now also aiming at her, he hadn't hesitated to gesture her up the ramp of his ship. It was all she'd had to go on for his character. Enough to trust him, on a base level—there was never a hint of the kind of opportunism she might have expected from a man in his position. They share the space of his ship comfortably enough, but that doesn't mean that she  _ knows _ him… 

She knows the basics about never taking off the helmet where another could see him. He hasn't really said much to her beyond the practical matters of sharing space on his ship, where to find things she needs and how to ensure his privacy. Are all Mandalorians as fastidious about never being seen out of their armour as this one? Do some of them lounge around their ships in comfortable tunics and breeches? Is it her presence that stops him from doing so? She tries to picture him relaxed and out of armour, but she has nothing to go on. 

How little she knows of him or what he looks like didn't seem to matter to her subconscious though, if her heated dream was anything to go by. She needs a drink of water to cool down.

Of course he's  _ right there _ when she emerges from her sleeping nook. He's in full armour and helmet, utterly at home in the quiet cockpit. Her face, already flushed from her dream, feels like it's burning. 

He can't  _ not  _ have heard her.

"Sorry. Dream," she blurts. 

His helmet tilts in the way that she has come to think of as 'I know.'

She abruptly turns away to pour herself some water, runs a hand through her hair. Tries to settle herself. It's been a long time since she's dreamed as vividly as that, strong enough to wake herself up still restless with want. Doing it practically in front of him, only separated by a thin curtain… 

There is the terrible suspicion that in her dream she begged for him to touch her, and that he may have heard. 

She shivers in the chill air at the thought.

"Come here."

The Mandalorian has turned his pilot chair toward her, sitting there leaning back with his knees spread comfortably, intimidating enough to make her heart pound.

She knows it's not a command, but her feet are already moving anyway, until she's standing in front of him, shivering from tension as much as from the cool air. The helmet moves down a fraction and back up, as if his gaze dropped to the tight nipples that she's sure are visible through her thin knee-length undertunic.

"I heard you," he says, with something to his voice she can't quite identify. She's too busy feeling a rush of embarrassment and arousal, all mixed together until she's not sure if she wants to disappear entirely or wait here to... well, wait for whatever is coming. 

"S-sorry?" she apologises weakly, trying not to squirm. The tension is unbearable.

"No." he still sounds so steady, though she can hear his breathing, which perhaps means he isn't quite his usual calm self. "Don't apologise."

"Uh..?"

"It was… inspiring."

She blinks at him, mouth falling open a little. She has no idea what she was expecting, but those words weren't it.

He continues, "Do you want to know what I pictured?"

She takes a shaky breath, unsure what exactly is being offered.

"Are you— going to tell me?" 

He lets out a little huff of breath, something that's perhaps amusement. His right hand comes up, gloved as always, and he says, voice dropping slightly, "Or I could show you."

She breathes in as if she's been jolted with electricity. She knows he's still a person under the helmet and the armour and the metal-clad composure. She doesn't know if he's  _ human _ , but she knows he's not a droid. But somehow the idea that he might have interest that he's simply kept to himself catches her broadsides. 

"Yeah?" she breathes, smiling just slightly, and gingerly takes his offered hand. 

He lightly tugs her closer to between his spread knees, and then his other hand settles on her far hip, gloved fingers pressing into her flesh, guiding her to sit on his thigh. 

The armour plate is hard under her ass, but she's surprised to find that he's warm. The armour and all the canvas layers and padding underneath look like it wouldn't transfer any body heat, like he'd be cold to the touch. Instead his touch feels warm and close, not nearly as impersonal as she'd expected. 

He lets go of her hand and slides his touch up her arm, firm and steady, and she idly wonders how much sensation transfers through his glove. If he would even feel a light touch. His hand slides up her shoulder and then kneads the back of her neck, and she sighs involuntarily, letting her head tip forward. 

He makes a small, disgruntled sort of sound, and his touch disappears, his arms encircling her briskly for a moment. She reflexively glances up at his face to find out what's wrong, rolls her eyes at herself because of course she gets nothing whatsoever from his helmet, and then hears two thuds, one after the other. His heavy gloves dropping to the deck. 

"Oh."

The bounty hunter's hands are broad and brown, with strong, deft fingers and neat short nails. Very human. She wants to touch them, trace his skin, feel the one uncovered part of him skin to skin. But he hums a sound of satisfaction and then returns to his previous touch at her nape, sliding up into her hair. His other hand settles warmly just over her hipbone, keeping her in place. 

She hears his intake of breath, and he spends what feels like a long time stroking her hair, tracing his fingers through the loose curls, apparently enjoying the sensation of touching as much as she enjoys being touched. He gathers it up to lightly tug on it, and she makes an indecent noise, which makes him gasp in turn. 

"How does that feel?"

She blinks to realise that he might genuinely not know, if what she's been told about Mandalorians and their helmets is true. Pretty likely that nobody has ever gently tugged his hair, if he even has hair. 

"Can't you tell?" she teases, "it feels amaz—" she trails off into a soft moan when he repeats the tugging.

"I'm getting that," he says, with audible amusement. She shoots a grin at him, somehow knowing he's grinning back even if she can't see it.

"Does it feel.." she begins to say, but he tugs a little more and she feels her eyes roll back in her head. "ughh.. feel nice to do?"

"Yeah," he sighs after a moment, relaxing his hand to stroke her hair. "Soft."

His other hand is curved around her hip, the span of his broad hand pressing her to him. He slowly tugs her hair until her head tips back, until her mouth falls open on a gusty breath, and then his hand slips under her tshirt. He strokes her side for a long moment, her stomach, her ribs, before finally,  _ finally  _ trailing up until he can palm her breast. 

A light pinch of her nipple startles her, and she unbalances, nearly toppling backward off his thigh with a yelp. He catches her with the hand between her shoulderblades, holding her up without apparent effort, her feet still off the ground. She feels her heart pound with the sensation of it, sitting balanced on his leg like this, at the mercy of the strength in his arm. He seems to be enjoying her precarious position, because he doesn't push her forward so her feet reach the deck, just keeps her there while he explores her breasts and makes her whimper at his leisure. There is nothing tentative about his touch, and she wants to arch into it, wants to feel both his hands, wants to stay like this forever—all at once. 

"Was this what you pictured?" she gasps, trying to sound normal and knowing she falls short of the mark. 

He chuckles, which is a sound she hasn't heard from him before. Then he abandons his kneading of her breasts and lifts her by the waist, putting her so she is sitting astride both his legs, her back against his chestplate.

"It was more... like.. this…" he says in a low tone, close to her ear. He grasps the bottom of her tunic and slowly pulls it off of her. Then he spreads his knees, spreading her legs with it. 

She hears the roughness of his breathing when he uses both hands to touch her breasts, and remembers that touching her, bare hands to her skin, seems to be doing as much for him as it does for her.

"Oh.." she shivers, feeling excruciatingly vulnerable like this, naked apart from her underwear, in the hands of this near-stranger in his full armour. Stripped of almost all her shields, while he's kept his. It's intensely vulnerable and, just now, way more arousing than it has any right to be. 

"You going to be thinking about this later?" she breathes, voice trembling when his right hand slides down over her stomach, slips under the waistband of her underwear. If she can't see his face, she wants to at least hear his voice, wants to hear that this is affecting him. 

He doesn't answer, and it is hard to think about anything else apart from the slow trail his fingers are making over her skin. She'd known he'd find wetness there, but the slick sound of his fingers settling where she needs to be touched makes him groan low. 

"At length," he finally answers, not quite hitting the laconic tone he might have been aiming for. 

She'd laugh if he hadn't chosen that moment to slip a finger inside of her, pulling her hips back against him.  _ Fuck _ it feels good. There's a hard ridge against her ass that she'd assumed was something like a belt pouch and now,  oh .  _ Yes _ .

"And in great detail," he adds, voice going tight and breathy at the end when she deliberately grinds against the hard length of him. It puts a rush in her chest to know she can do that, and she lets her head tip back against his shoulder with a satisfied moan.

He has two fingers curled inside of her and the heel of his palm pressed against her clit, and every thrust rocks her against him, making them gasp in unison. His left forearm is like a hard diagonal band across her torso, keeping her close, the hand cupped around her breast. 

"Yeah?" her voice is so breathy she barely recognises it. "Can I…  _ ohh…  _ can I listen when you do?"

He makes a sound like she punched the breath out of him—had that option never occurred to him before? The cool steel of his helmet presses into her shoulder, as if he'd like to bury his face there. Does he want the helmet to be off right now? She doesn't want him to do that, doesn't want to be the cause of that regret. The thought drifts away again because he curls his fingers and she is suddenly close,  _ so _ close, his fingers feel so  _ good _ . 

On an impulse she tugs his hand away from her breast and slips his index finger into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it with a hard, pulsing suck.

_ Fuck _ , that does it, her whole body jolts, torso curling forward while her legs pull up from the outside of his legs and clamp shut in reflex, trapping his hand. She's only vaguely aware of the long groan, of his chestplate pressing into her back as he comes.

She's still curled up into a ball on his lap, listening to the pounding of her own heart, when the man shifts in the chair. Does she need to get up and leave him alone now? Is that is how this goes? Things had gone so quickly that she hadn't thought about how awkward this might get afterward. She wishes she could see his face to get an idea of where his head is at, because he seems as distant as he's ever been. 

But the Mandalorian only settles more comfortably and gently withdraws his hand now her thighs have relaxed. He moves her to sit sideways in his lap, leaning against him. The arm behind her back moves some more, and then he's pulling his cloak around her body, the coarse material something of a shield against the chill of the cockpit.

"Thanks," she yawns, suddenly bonelessly relaxed in the circle of his arms. Whatever, if it's going to be awkward later, she has her pick of planets where to walk off his ship. For now he seems to like having her close. She lets her head rest against his shoulder, nestling it in the unarmoured space inside of his pauldron and below his helmet. There's a sliver of bare skin there, where his high collar has slipped down so it isn't met completely by his helmet, and for a moment she wants to press her lips there. She doesn't, but just her warm breath against his skin seems to make him shiver a little. 

"Yes," the man suddenly says, and she blinks, makes an inquiring noise. 

"You can listen," he clarifies. 

She pictures sitting in her bed nook, back against the thin metal wall that separates them, knowing he is naked. Listening to him getting himself off. 

"Mm. That sounds…  _ inspiring _ ."

She's never heard him laugh before. It's a rather nice sound. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise... I didn't know this was going to be a multichapter either, but I'm not bored of it yet, so...

The next day is surprisingly non-awkward. Neither of them mentions their... encounter, but they move around each other comfortably enough. The Mandalorian—she's started to think of him as Mando, for lack of an alternative— made a short stop to a small desert planet, and she'd gone out to buy some clothes. Her abrupt departure from the planet where she met him meant she had come aboard with only with what she'd been wearing at the time. 

If it had been necessary she could have stepped off here, she's trained as a medic, she can make some sort of living almost anywhere. But it's a sad scrapheap of a place and Mando is clearly not so keen to be rid of her that he suggests it. 

In fact, he's recommended Suarbi, a temperate planet he'll probably go to in a few days where they have a hospital, and enough of a spaceport that they get the big cargo runners in. Just in case she wants to go back to working in a ship clinic, like she did before she got stuck on a shitty Wild Space planet with a shitty corrupt boss who controlled the spaceport. 

He's even promised her a modest share of the bounty of her boss to get her some gear and a room until she finds work. 

For such an intimidating looking and acting man, and such a loner, he's surprisingly concerned with getting her off to a fair start on a new planet. 

They've both been out in the sun for the better part of the day, though she's obviously the only one who is glowing pink where she was exposed to the harsh suns. Mando has parked the ship in orbit for a sleep cycle, which is apparently safer than staying on the ground. 

She's been in the fresher to wash off the dust, and now clean, piles her hair on top of her head and rubs the cool, slippery healing balm she's bought at the market onto the skin of her neck. She's been living under a perpetual cloud haze for years now, direct sunlight was a shock to the system and she was not covered up with sufficient layers. 

It's almost impossible to tell with the helmet, but the angle of the Mandalorian's body makes her wonder if he's watching her do it with any degree of interest.

"I'm going to turn in early," he announces shortly after. 

"Oh? Tired?" she asks, eyebrows raised. She imagines that his exasperated look is so distinct that she can see it even through the faceplate of his helmet. Not so much _tired_ , then. More likely inspired. 

They've previously determined that it's easiest for her to turn in first, retreating behind the curtain of her cargo-rack-turned-sleeping-nook so that he has the privacy to get out of his armour in the open space of the small cargo bay. 

It's an intriguing process to listen to, and she settles in on her back to give it proper attention. It starts with the sounds of his gloves sliding off and hitting the storage ledge.

"You know," she says conversationally to the deckhead, "it really is entirely unfair that just the sound of you taking off your gloves is doing things to me now."

His chuckle is warm and deep. "Is that so?" 

It takes her a moment to realise he sounds different because this helmet is already off. She has no idea why that makes her flush with heat.

" _Very_ unfair," she nods.

There are sounds of buckles, soft clanks of armour plates put down. 

"And what kind of things is that sound doing to you?"

Just the thought of telling him makes her suck in a sharp breath. 

"Made my heart pound just now," she admits.

"...and?"

He sounds so sure there's more, the bastard.

"...made my thighs clench together…" she whispers finally.

There's a low hum that sounds like approval, and the shift and slide of the heavy canvas layers he wears under his armour. There's probably another layer under there, something softer and more easily washed. He might be at the level of dress that most people wear daily, but compared to what he normally wears he's practically naked. 

Would he let her see him like this, if he were wearing his helmet? She has no idea about what rules and guides make up the Mandalorian Way, and decides not to ask. She's already intruding on his space with her presence. If he wants her to see more of him, he'll let her know. 

He disappears into the fresher for a few minutes, and she spends an entirely undignified amount of time thinking about what he might look like naked under the water. She's a medic, for fuck's sake, it's not like she doesn't know what a naked man looks like. 

Maybe that's the fascination - she has little more than hints about what _he_ looks like. Strong hands and broad wrists. Golden brown skin even though it never sees the sun. That's all she knows and likely all she'll ever know. Unless he decides the Way has loopholes, and he doesn seem the ty—

"What are you thinking about?"

The sound she makes could be, unwillingly, described as a guilty squeak, as if he could hear her thoughts. His voice sounded very close to the curtain that closes off the side of her rack. He's standing right on the other side. 

"Uh, about your hands," she says, which is not entirely a lie. She was thinking about his hands rubbing soap over his body. 

"Hmmm." It sounds skeptical. There are more sounds of him moving around, and then he climbs into his own sleeping nook, at a right angle with hers at her head end, and pulls shut the curtain. 

There is only a thin metal wall between them. There's even a vent at the top. 

"I was thinking about how I should have applied that skin balm for you," he offers casually. 

The image forms instantly, those hands gliding over her neck and shoulders, strong fingers massaging, palms gliding forward to smooth the stuff onto her throat. Pausing there to feel her pounding heartbeat…

"Though I might not have stopped at the sunburnt skin."

Oh gods, him behind her, gliding his hands down the center of her chest, slippery balm rubbed into her breasts…

"That—" she swallows. "That doesn't sound like a _problem_ , so much."

"Mmm, suppose not…" he shifts, there's a soft rustle of fabric, and then he lets out a long sigh. Has he taken himself in hand? She imagines so, that this is the relief of a touch he's been anticipating for hours. It's the first time he's put the ship into orbit for a sleep cycle, perhaps it was the thought of this moment to lead to that decision? It's an exciting thought that he might have been planning this, deliberately created a safe moment to enjoy it without needing to be on guard. 

"...getting all that soft skin all slick and wet…" he murmurs.

Her hand has slipped inside her underwear quite without her conscious decision. Gods, the thought of him, right next to her, touching himself just as she is touching herself. 

"Some of me doesn't exactly, uh…" she takes a deep breath, circling her clit delicately with a fingertip, "need the balm to get like that."

There's a low rumbling undertone in his voice when he says "Oh, I _remember_ that, trust me…" and _Gods_ she needs to feel his hands on her again. Wants to touch him, stroke him, taste him. 

"So maybe…" she starts to suggest, then hesitates. She really has no idea where the boundaries are here. What is blocked by the Mandalorian Way and what kind of initiative he'll accept and enjoy from her. She doesn't want to ruin this.

"Hmm?"

"Maybe now you've finished getting _me_ all slick and wet…" she breathes, sitting up and putting the container of the skin balm on the little ledge outside their curtains, where he can reach it. "Maybe you should use some on yourself." 

He curses low and fervent in a language she doesn't understand, but she can hear him sit up to grab the container. She strains her ears to follow what happens—is that the lid? Is he naked or in his underclothes?—but then a groan makes it very obvious when he starts touching himself. There are soft, slick sounds and she is almost breathless with desire. 

"Are you touching yourself?" he asks, sounding pretty breathless himself. 

"I got distracted by listening to you," she confesses, because her fingers had gone still. 

"You made such _good_ noises yesterday," he says. "Make some more for me."

The hint of command in his tone gives her a thrill low in her stomach. It makes her want to blow his _mind_ . If she can't do it by touching him… well, unlike him, a man clearly unused to talking, _she_ can run her mouth. Just needs to get her mind in the right headspace. 

"Fuck, your fingers felt so good yesterday," she begins, thinking about it again while her own fingers slip through her wetness. "So strong and sure, mm… I spent _far_ too much time today fantasising about sitting on your lap. It was very distracting."

She hears his sharp intake of breath.

"Did you think about it too?" she asks slyly. Not sure if she'll get a response, but judging by the soft, slick sounds coming from the other side, the answer is yes. 

"Yeah," he finally says, voice low and rough. "Thought about it."

She'll take it. 

"That's good to know, that I'm not alone in that," she smiles at the deckhead. "Wouldn't want to be alone in my dirty thoughts when we're sitting in the cockpit together… hoping that any moment you'll reach out to take a good hold of my hair… steer me toward you to sit in your lap… pull me against you… take off your gloves..."

He groans softly, and she hopes she's etched that image firmly into his head.

"You looked so good putting yourself in my hands like that," he rumbles. "So trusting… throat all bared... Made me want to—"

He cuts himself off, and she wonders if he's thinking about kissing or nibbling, things that are obviously not going to happen with his helmet on, and because of that perhaps can't be fantasised about. 

"You could have felt my heart race."

He hums. "I'll keep that in mind. Just in case."

That oblique reference to it happening again makes her squirm. She has two of her fingers inside of her, alternating between pumping them in and out and rubbing her clit. She hadn't wanted to pin her hopes on a repeat, but… 

"I keep thinking about sitting on your lap, but facing you this time," she confesses. "My chest pressed against your breastplate… Grinding my hips against you while you have your fingers inside me…"

"...fuuck..." he sighs. "So hot when you came, all curled around my hand. Such strong legs..."

"Sitting like that, you'd be between my legs when I came, not only your hand," she muses, thinking about it. Held closely against his body, her thighs clamped around his hips. Unless he's willing to undress, it's probably the most intimate they could get. Gods, she wants it. 

She wants so much more than that, too. Even disregarding everything that needed his helmet to be off, she wants to nuzzle and kiss and lick his skin, feel his bare chest against hers, perhaps discover what sound he'd make if she grazed her teeth over the side of his neck. Wants to taste him, feel him in her mouth. 

His deep groan yanks her attention back to what is happening here and now, which is that her hips have started rocking without her input and heat is gathering low in her belly. From the sounds of it, the Mandalorian is rounding the bend just at the thought of having her come in his lap. A thought strikes her. 

"Did you taste your fingers?" Gods, her voice sounds like she's just been running, "when you were… mmm.. when you were alone last night?"

" _Yes_ ," he says fervently. 

And _wow_ , that's the image that shoves her over the edge, him alone in his bed later that night, helmet off, finally able to taste her. Her hips jerk and she curls abruptly onto her side, fingers still moving on her clit, trying to keep going before the rush of pleasure overtakes her—

...

She's not sure what kind of sound she just made, but her throat feels a little raw, and she vaguely tries to remember where she put her water container, and if she can reach it without moving. 

She can hear Mando panting on the other side of the partition. There's a strange kind of silence between them now that she doesn't know how to break, and perhaps he doesn't either. 

The ship's air is cool, and the slight sheen of sweat on her skin is already making her cold. She fumbles with the tangled mess she made of her blankets, suddenly feeling strangely alone in the silence. 

"I liked it when you held me, after," she sighs before she can think better of it. He'd held her curled up against him, covered by his cloak, for a wonderful eternity, not seeming impatient in the slightest. 

"Mm," he hums. "I liked that too."

She manages to shake out her blanket and spread it out over herself, curled up into a ball on her side. It's quiet on his side for a while, and she might be drifting a little bit. Then suddenly:

"Are you facing the bulkhead?"

"Huh?" she asks muzzily. 

"Do you have your back to your curtain?"

"Oh. Yeah."

She hears him move around and then open his curtain - perhaps he wanted to know to make sure he could go to the fresher without putting on his helmet, because she hears him pad around on bare feet, hears the door of the fresher. At least he's talking to her now, and doesn't seem awkward about it. 

He comes back out a few moments later, and her heart slams into doubletime when he opens _her_ curtain. It makes no difference to visibility in the pitch black of the cargo bay, but suddenly she can sense him standing over her, and his scent is there, not the metal and leather and canvas of his armour but the warm, male musk of him. 

His hand lightly lands on her shoulder, nudging her to move down a little, and then he sits down across the head end of her rack, his back against the wall. When he's settled in, he encourages her to slide up a little, pillowing her cheek on his thigh, which is firm and muscular under a layer of soft fabric. 

She lets out a sigh of deep comfort, and he chuckles. She can hear that he's wearing his helmet, which isn't entirely a surprise. This already feels so intimate, first the openness of their, uh, _session_ , and then this, touch without layers and layers of durasteel and canvas in the way. She's not surprised he wanted the shield of his helmet, even though she couldn't see him in the dark if she tried. It doesn't matter to her anyway, because he's stroking her hair with one hand, lightly tracing her face with the fingertips of the other. 

She takes that hand and guides it down her jaw to her throat, where he can feel her racing heartbeat. His broad hand covers her throat, and she hums at the feeling of it, at how vulnerable it makes her and how safe it feels to put herself into his hands. He lets the touch sit for long moments, then pulls her blanket closer around her shoulder, and settles his fingers to circle lightly around her wrist. 

Without really meaning to she's curled her fingers into the hem of his soft shirt, right by his hip. 

"Mm, 's nice..." she murmurs.

There's something rough to his voice when he answers, the helmet's voice modulator giving a little crackle. 

"Yes." 

She's too drowsy to think about it right now. The warm glide of his hand over her head and hair lulls her to sleep, and she dreams of the press of his lips to her forehead. 


	3. Chapter 3

The Mandalorian's current quarry has been planet hopping lately, so they're tracing his steps, and probably won't get to the next planet until the end of whatever night cycle he decides to adhere to. That means a fair amount of time spent sitting quietly in the cockpit together. He seems to enjoy flying manually even though this is clearly something the autopilot can handle, and she bought a few small bundles of plant-dyed thread and a needle, and is embroidering little designs on her new clothes to pass the time. 

"Just say it," the Mandalorian says without turning away from the viewport where he is piloting. "Whatever it is."

She startles a little. It's true that she's been trying to work up the courage to—well, ask things she's so far figured were better not asked about. Every time she's found half curious, she's reminded herself that they've been getting on okay and that keeping it that way—by, say, not prying into his personal beliefs— is a priority. 

"How do you know…?"

"You keep—" he gives a sharp inhale as if he's about to speak.

Oh.

"I don't want to offend you by being nosy," she says, looking out the viewport. 

He tilts his helmet in what she's come to suspect is an eyeroll.

"If I don't want to answer, I won't."

"Okay."

It takes her another little while to formulate a place to begin. 

"If—if The Way is that Mandalorians never take their helmets off in front of another person, how does that… I mean how does that work in families? Do Mandalorian children grow up without seeing the faces of their parents?"

He's silent for a long time, even for him, and she tries not to fidget. Is he thinking about what to say or is this his 'I'll just not answer'? She has no way to tell. 

"I was a foundling," he finally says, low and flat. It startles her from her thoughts. "They took me in and cared for me when I was eight years old. They made me part of their clan and showed me the Way, and I put on my helmet."

And he hadn't taken it off with anybody since, she understood. 

"I do not know…" He trails off, and she bites the inside of her cheek to stay quiet, because interrupting him now won't help at all.

He sighs finally. "I do not know if there are any family units left now. Or how they navigated the Way within the privacy of them. A lot has changed."

Oh. The thought hits her, unexpectedly gut-wrenching, that he himself probably has never seen any of his adopted people without helmet, so he might not have any idea how other Mandalorians handled the constraints of the Way in the private sphere. If they eat meals with partners, with children. If they spend time out of armour among trusted friends. He could well have been exposed to the most staunchly conservative Way, not counterbalanced by ever seeing Mandalorian parents take off their helmets in private. 

"Does it bother you?"

She startles out of her thoughts. It was a neutral question, thankfully—he doesn't sound like her answer is going to influence his decisions any, which is a relief. 

"It's… it takes some getting used to," she says carefully. She would prefer to see his face, his eyes, but that doesn't mean she wants him to abandon his calling. 

He hums in acknowledgement.

"Is the—uh, is wearing the armour, is that part of it? All the time?"

"Personal preference," he answers. 

Whatever mildly flirtatious thing was about to trip off her tongue stays there. 

"Oh," she said softly, turning back to the craft project in her hands. It's not a surprise, and she isn't sure what she expected. This was never more than a pleasant coincidence on her way to a new life. And it's not like the sex hasn't been hot as hell. But it was easier to take the idea that his beliefs dictated that he keep his full armour on, than that he just doesn't want to take it off. 

She works in silence for what feels like a long time. If he notices the new awkwardness, he gives no indication of it. 

Why does it even matter why he keeps on the armour? She'd found it exciting, before, to be vulnerable before him while he kept all his shields. To have the full focus of his attention. It hadn't carried this sting of rejection when she didn't know why he did it. 

He turns his pilot chair to look at her, silent and steady.

She glances up at him for a moment, then says to her project: 

"See, this is the problem. Unless you say something, I have no idea if you're smiling or glaring at me right now."

"Hmm." The helmet tilts slightly. "That's fair."

After another silence he sighs. 

"I don't… do this. A lot." He makes a small handgesture between them that she takes for 'being on friendly touch terms with another person' or perhaps even broader, 'spending time with another person'. It's not hard to see that he's under-socialised and touch starved.

If she's honest, so is she, there hasn't been anybody she's wanted to touch in a long time. But at least she has been around people, even if it was on that shithole Silken where he found her. Remembers how to have a conversation. 

"It's overwhelming. Touching you." He sounds like he's struggling for words. 

She nods slowly, hoping he'll keep going. 

"The helmet stays on, because that—that is what it means to be a Mandalorian. And if I—went looking for loopholes, like darkness, or blindfolds, just because this particular tenet of the code did not suit me right now, what would—what meaning would any of it have?"

"I can understand that. I never wanted for you to—"

He makes a soothing gesture. "I know," he agrees. "I want you to—I want you to understand. And the armour, it's—it's not about armour. It's about skin."

If him touching her with his bare hands is overwhelming to him, yeah she's not surprised that the idea of being naked and being touched in return is about three galaxies too far for him to handle. 

"I liked when you held me, last night," she says. "It was nice to feel _you_ instead of the armour plates."

"Yes. I liked that too."

"We could—" she takes a deep breath, feeling greatly daring. "We could try how that feels?"

He clearly considers that. She wonders if he's thinking about taking off the plating but leaving the thick canvas layers, or if his thoughts go straight to his sleep clothes. 

"I won't touch you under your clothes," she offers softly. Then still, she would probably have to stick to fairly neutral zones even over top of his clothes. She doesn't even care, she just wants to be chest to chest, arms around each other, and feel each other breathe. If she could nuzzle her face into his bare neck, all the better, but it's not even a requirement. 

Mando must come to a decision, because he leans forward, slowly, steadily invading her space, and her breath stutters at that sudden proximity. Her eyes are fixed on his visor even though she doesn't see anything there. It feels like she can't look away. 

Then there is a soft sliding sound, and the thud of one glove, then the other, hitting the deck at her feet. Her mouth falls open a little, and her heart is suddenly pounding. She was thinking about _hugging_ , until just a second ago. Sitting in his lap and holding him. Now… she's not. 

The man is a _menace_. She's surely not the first one to think so, though she might be the first to think about it in this particular context. 

"Why don't you go… put that away," he suggests, with a brief tilt of the helmet making it clear he refers to her craft project. "And come back up wearing what you'd like to be wearing when you sit on my lap."

She swallows, but doesn't move. Feels caught in his unseen gaze. What she'd like to be wearing. In other words, declare her intent. Fuck, is she daring enough to come back up to the cockpit naked? Maybe she does really want to hold him for a while. Or they can do that, uh, afterward. Either is good. Or both. _Gods_. 

His hand settles lightly on the side of her neck, the pad of thumb sweeping to where he can feel her racing heartbeat. Is he smiling? It's impossible to know, but she imagines so. Then he puts his fingers under her jaw and presses up a little, prompting her to rise. 

Her face feels hot and his fingers, lightly tracing down her arm as she gets to her feet, give her a full-body shiver. 

"Uh, right. I'll… yeah."

She doesn't hurry, because he'll need some time to get to whatever state of dress he wants to be in, and his helmet might need to be off to get there. Anyway, she needs the time for her indecision about what to wear. Naked, however daring she'd like to be, seems too overtly sexual. She really _does_ also want to hold him and be held. Plus her sleep clothes have lead to interesting things before…

"I'm coming up now, okay?" she calls up the ladder. 

"Yes," she hears, the voice modulator audible. 

Mando is in the pilot chair still, or again. He's taken off the armour, and the canvas layers on his torso, leaving him in a soft-looking long-sleeved shirt with a close-fitted collar. The cowl-thing he normally wears is gone and his neck is bare. The sight of his golden brown skin of his throat makes her blush absurdly, as if she's never seen a man's neck before. 

The armrests of the chair are hinged down, and he's leaning back in the chair, body language inviting. 

His canvas under-armour trousers are still on, but she can't even care. She wants to crawl into his lap, but there's a thrill of uncertainty at if she needs to wait for an invitation or if it's implied. 

His helmet tilts in a way that makes it clear he is looking her up and down in her thin shorts and top. Then, because apparently they're re-enacting that first night, he says 

"Come here."

She goes, putting the blanket she brought within easy reach, and stands in front of him. This time though, he reaches for her hips, broad warm hands cupping around her hipbones, and tugs her closer. She climbs astride his legs, her knees beside his hips, and moves in closer until her chest is pressed against his, warm through the fabric, and she can wrap her arms around him. 

His breath stutters, and all his muscles feel tense. Shit, should she have held back? Waited for his initiative? Is this too much? But after a few tense breaths, his hand tentatively comes up to rest between her shoulderblades, and he relaxes under her by slow degrees. 

"Okay?" she whispers, cheek resting against his shoulder. He shivers at the way her breath brushes against his neck. He makes a sound deep in his chest, a low rumble she can feel, and she takes a shivery breath. 

"Heavy," he murmurs, and before she can lean away his hand tightens on her back. "Stay. It's good."

He doesn't need to explain that he is far, far more used to being touched with violence than like this. Everything she's seen of his life makes it clear that this situation, both the offer and the acceptance, are exceedingly rare for him. 

With the way she has her head on his shoulder, she can see under the rim of his helmet, can see the edge of his hairline in his neck. Short, dark brown hair. Her fingers itch to stroke there, maybe even lightly tug on the tufts of hair she can reach without moving his helmet. To trace the muscles in his neck, in his throat. To feel the stubble at his jawline. 

She doesn't want to make him worry she won't respect the helmet though, so she stops herself. Allows her breathing to attune to his and waits him out. His hand makes slow passes up and down her back, his other hand cups the nape of her neck. 

"Will you squeeze there?" she whispers after a while, pushing back against his hand a little.

He hums inquiringly and tries it, a slow, steady squeeze on the back of her neck that makes her gasp and then outright _melt_. 

He makes an intrigued noise and tries it again, but this time his other hand slides down to cup an asscheek and simultaneously squeeze _there._ It's a strange combination of her mind going quiet and calm while her hips want to roll and move and grind, and she muffles a conflicted moan against his shoulder. 

"That's just unfair," she declares, a little dazed. 

"Is it? Should I stop?" he sounds amused. 

"I didn't say tha..ahh…" she trails off when he does it again, hand a little lower, fingertips dangerously close to the edge of her loose sleep shorts.

"Take this off," he says, tugging at the hem of her top. "The shorts too, before I get tempted to tear them off."

She scrambles off of him to get naked, breathless with the thought of that, of his strong hands and his matter of fact urgency, of him wanting her clothes out of the way and just… getting them off of her without caring if they tear. Her knees feel wobbly. _Gods_. 

He pulls her back onto his lap into her previous position, keeping her there with a hand on the back of her neck. Her exhale is shivery in anticipation. 

"So soft…" his fingertips trace the lines of her back, tracing little circles around her vertebrae, then featherlight along the edge of her ribcage. It's ticklish, and she squirms, which only seems to amuse him. "And such fun little noises."

"MandooOO!" she whines, undignified and rising on a yelp. 

"Din," he says. 

"Huh?"

"That's my name. Din," he says, voice bone-dry through the voice modulator. "If you're going to be screaming it, you might as well get it right."

Any sense of awe or reverence at being trusted with this information disappears under her laughing outrage, which in itself turns into a high-pitched moan when he rakes his blunt fingernails down her back. 

She's bracing for him to do it again, but he pauses, his chest heaving, and oh—she's breathing open-mouthed against the side of his neck, warm and damp, and it turns out that can _absolutely_ halt him in his tracks. 

"Well, I'm Yala," she breathes against his skin. "Not sure if you remember."

She'd tried to introduce herself at some point when boarding his ship on Silken, but he'd been brusque, busy with getting them off the planet. He'd had no time for her adrenaline-shaky attempts to be polite, and it hadn't come up since. 

He hums, acknowledging that, and she presses her lips to his skin, flicks out her tongue, and sucks gently.

She highly doubts it's an erogenous zone he was previously aware of, and the involuntary reaction is several degrees beyond her wildest dreams. He pulls her down into his lap while his hips rock up, and the noise he makes is _indescribable_.

She backs off, not wanting to fry his synapses when they're only getting started, and gives him a moment. 

"...Suffering _Gods_ ," he gasps finally, breathing hard. "Save that for later." 

He firmly moves her head more to the outside of his shoulder to stop her. She almost wants to protest, but then his hand is tracing along her thigh, fingers curling tauntingly underneath to the sensitive skin where thigh meets cheek, and she digs her nails into his cloth-covered biceps a little harder than intended. Her body wants to squirm, but then he might _stop_ , and it's vitally important that he doesn't stop. 

"Breathe," he advises dryly, as if he isn't one hundred percent responsible for her gradually unravelling state. As if his fingertips aren't tracing a path back and forth on her slick wet skin right at her entrance. "I hear it's healthy." 

"Ghnn—" she grits out, and his fingers slide up into the hair at her nape, curl around a good handful, and pull back her head just as he pushes a finger into her. Her eyes roll back in her head. "Ssscrew y-you."

He yanks her head to face him directly, his visor no more than a hand's width from her face. 

" _What_ did you just say?" His voice sounds low and dangerous. 

It shouldn't work, without eye contact, it shouldn't make her feel this heady, breathless mix of intimidation and arousal. The soft, wet sounds of his finger moving in and out of her make it very obvious that the helmet is no hindrance. She's panting a little, trying not to capitulate. 

"Nggh… _bite_ me," she grits out. He pulls on her hair until her head tips back, and then he's—if there wasn't the helmet in the way, he'd be nuzzling her throat. The cool planes and angles of his faceplate press against her overheated skin. 

"Oh, sweet girl," he says, his voice rough and quiet, "you have _no idea_ how much I want to…"

There's not much to the touch, it feels like cool metal to her skin, little more, but the idea that he's behind there _yearning_ to touch her, that his mouth might be dry, his lips parted, his voice _breaking_ over how much he wants his mouth on her—it gives her a full body shiver. 

He does something with his hand, she isn't sure what, and then the curl of his fingers strokes the front walls of her entrance. Her hips rock of their own volition, seeking more of that feeling. She's pretty sure she makes some kind of garbled cursing noise because he sounds like he's chuckling and groaning all at once, his faceplate pressed hard into the side of her neck, two of his fingers inside of her. 

Gods, she can _hear_ how wet she is, it has to be soaking into his trousers, she's grinding against the hard, cloth-covered length of him. He's using his grip on her hair to move her in a rhythm that suits him, and she feels breathless, heart pounding, suspended between his hands. Her fingers pluck restlessly at the back of his shirt.

"Din," she gasps, "I wanna—please, Din, I, I—just—let me—Din, please—"

He brings her face right in front of him again, a moment of breathless stillness while her hips are still grinding and his fingers move inside her.

"What? W-what do you need, Yala?"

Her insides light up at the way he says her name, and she almost sobs with frustration at having to form words in this moment, when her brain feels scrambled and her whole body is tensing up. 

"Please, can I—" she brings up a shaking hand to brush against the side of his neck, hoping that will get him to understand. He seems to, because he lets go of her hair, and she immediately buries her face against his neck. Moans "Yessss…" when he wraps his arm around her, pulling her as close as she can go. 

She's mindlessly mouthing at the skin of his neck when he groans and tilts his head to the side, expressly inviting her. She can see the underside of his jaw this way, the spot where his stubble ends at the hinge of his jaw and there's just smooth skin over corded muscles. 'Save it for later' he'd said and this seems like entirely the right moment, so she leans up and presses her mouth there, just under his ear. She swirls her tongue against his skin and sucks gently. 

His full-throated groan is possibly the best sound she's ever felt and heard, and just as his fingers inside of her make her moan, she gently bites at his damp skin, scraping him with her teeth.

His hips jolt up, lifting them both clean up out of the pilot chair, and he shouts something in a language she doesn't know. When he crashes back down onto the seat his fingers fill her exactly right, and she finally tips over the edge she's been coming up to. Her legs are clamped hard around his waist, and she muffles a high-pitched moan against his neck, shuddering through her orgasm.

Din's hips jerk again, two, three more times, and she can feel the hard length of him pulse. Gods, how she wished it was inside of her right now, but his fingers and this position are a very, very good second. He doesn't stop curling his fingers in her until she slumps against him, trembling and overly sensitive. 

"Screaming suffering _gods_ ," he pants, a moan rumbling low in his throat when she abandons the now reddening skin just under his ear. He gently extricates his hand from between them and—

She whimpers when he brings up his hand and slips his fingers under his helmet to suck them clean. He's not doing it for her benefit, as far as she can tell. He barely seems aware that she's watching. He makes soft humming sound of pleasure, and her sensitive, overstimulated flesh pulses. 

All Yala can do is bury her face against him and try to calm down the wild gallop of her heart. 

After a long moment he leans up, cradling her to him, and grabs the blanket from where she dropped it earlier. He spreads it out over her with a heartbreaking kind of care. She's feeling unexpectedly emotional right now, heartsore at the realisation that this man has all of this in him, this care and attention and sweetness, and he's sworn to keep it hidden under layers of cloth and canvas and durasteel and beskar, never to reveal, to show, to _connect_. Can it really be the intent of the Way to keep Mandalorians separate from anybody they might connect with? To disavow smiles and eye contact and kissing, or give up their identity?

"That was so good," she whispers against his throat. He hums in agreement.

His hand cups around the back of her head, and he tucks her under his chin, cradled close against his chest. Feeling him sigh and sink into that touch, she doesn't think the isolation of the Way comes natural or easy to him. 

"This is good too," he says softly, some indeterminable time later. Yala murmurs her drowsy agreement and nestles closer. 


	4. Chapter 4

She isn't entirely surprised when the next morning, the Mandalorian is silent and distant. They arrive at the planet where he tracked his quarry to, and he only curtly tells her not to go far before he's off. 

She's not _surprised_ that after the unexpected intimacy of the previous night he's retreated into his closed-off bounty hunter persona, but that doesn't stop it from smarting a little. Yala only goes into the marketplace for some fresh food, and then spends some time staring at star charts in the cockpit. 

Suarbi, the planet Din recommended to her, isn't that far. A short hyperspace jump and less than half a cycle of flying. If he catches his bounty today, she'll suggest they go there next. Maybe he's been cold because he thinks she wants to stay? And while she… she doesn't _not_ want to stay, she'd consider it if he wanted her to, he clearly doesn't have space for her in his life. It's time to go before it gets uncomfortable. More uncomfortable. 

Exciting as this little interlude has been, it's about time she starts the next part of her life. 

At some point she hears the ramp, his footsteps, and then the hiss of the carbonizer, and she nods to herself. 

His tread is heavy as he climbs up, and he isn't moving quite right, like he took a beating. His armour is scuffed with dirt. Seems like the bounty didn't come in easily.

Too occupied with taking him in, checking if he's okay, she doesn't realise she's in the pilot's chair until he's right there. She hastily gets up, and he silently sits down, stares at the star chart she'd been looking at for a moment, centred on Suarbi. He nods, seemingly to himself—but then again, how would she tell the difference?—and begins the sequence for take-off. 

It takes her longer than it should have to notice that he's bleeding. In her defence, it's on the right arm, which is turned away from her and it looks like he's tightly wrapped the wound before buckling his vambrace back over it. 

"Let me look at that," she says quietly. 

"It's nothing. I'll tend to it later."

She's been willing to tread lightly when it comes to intimacy, but she's a medic, and if he's expecting her to just let him bleed while she sits here…

" _Hey_." Her voice sounds sharper than she intended, but she can't back down now. "You have a medic sitting next to you."

He switches to autopilot when they're on course for Suarbi. Then he turns to her and gives her what she has to assume is a long steady look. It doesn't come close to intimidating her like it has before; something about slipping into her medical professional persona changes everything. 

Finally he sighs, a capitulation. 

"Where's your med kit?"

He points, and she gets it out, thinking wistfully of the bag she'd managed to assemble on Silken. She even had some bacta patches there. The bag was lost during their escape. Din's kit is better than she'd feared—it needs a tidy and replenish, but he's got most of what she needs for basic wound care. 

He doesn't seem to want to be so helpful as to come over to where she has the kit spread out, so she takes it over to by his side. 

"D'you want to take that off?" she suggests, nodding at his vambrace. She can't tell how it attaches around his forearm. 

He unclasps it and puts it down on his other side, away from her. The cloth strip he tied underneath looks tighter than is really healthy, too much like a tourniquet, though he had the right idea by putting a wadded up ball of cloth right on the wound to staunch the bleeding. 

"Glove too, please. Actually, both."

Every time so far she's seen him with his gloves off has carried a heavy, suggestive meaning. It barely even occurs to her now she's comparing the colour of his fingers. The right hand looks darker than she'd like.

He doesn't comment or help when she cuts the strip and works up his sleeves, cutting a cuff to make it slide up over the wound. It's a knife-like slice to the flesh of his forearm, perhaps a hit that he tried to deflect with the vambrace armour and which slid off onto his arm. Good thing the armour took the brunt of it, because at this angle it could have sliced off his lower arm. 

She curls his fingers around his wrist to hold him still while she puts a couple of numbing shots around it, and then cleans the wound and the surrounding skin. It's easy to get into the detached headspace she's in when giving medical care—bodies are just bodies that she can, for the most part, repair—but she's aware of his breathing, when it gets tight and shallow and when he takes deep, deliberate breaths. 

Rather than use the cauteriser over the top like he would have done— _has_ done, judging by some of the rough scars she can glimpse on his arm.. she uses the fine attachment and goes layer by layer. First re-attaching the muscles as much as she can, then the skin layers. It takes four times as long but it will heal much better, and it's satisfying to be able to do this for him. 

She'd half expected impatience or irritation, but he's a surprisingly good patient now he's decided to let her work. He sits still as a rock, only occasionally flexing his fingers. It makes the muscles of his broad wrist shift under her grip, which is more of a strain on her concentration than she'd like it to be. 

When she's done, she cleans the arm, wraps it in a sterile bandage and pulls his sleeve back down over it. He's been silent all the while, and she feels a growing pressure to speak, to break this strange tension. Instead she keeps her eyes on the med kit and takes it over to the table to organise and repack it. 

It's fine. The HUD says it's only a few hours to Suarbi. They can get through this. 

The planet looks temperate, green and kind of foggy. Not a lot of risk of sunburn here, from the looks of it, but that suits Yala fine. There's a good sized city with a decent spaceport, but no real signs of heavy industry. 

The Mandalorian has mentioned that there's a cargo trade company based here that has routes throughout this system—her parents were traders on freighters like that, so maybe she can find work in the onboard clinic of one of those. 

Yala has packed what little belongings she's picked up over the past week into a small duffle bag, and imagined this would be a matter of saying goodbye on the ramp. He's been so cool and distant today, she figures it's high time to get out of his hair. It's evening on Suarbi, but there has to be some type of guest house near the spaceport. Spacers like a good bath and a non-reconstituted meal as much as anyone. 

"So, uh, thanks for everything," she says awkwardly when he comes down the ladder after the Razor Crest has powered down. She hefts her duffel to get ready to say goodbye. 

He ignores her to take his long rifle from its rack and hang it across his back. Then he opens the ramp and strides down. Is he just… leaving? All right, that's even less friendly than she'd come to expect— 

—once on the ground he looks back, apparently expecting her to walk with him. Oh. 

"It was the least I could do," he says, apparently in response to her thanks. 

It's a reply that discourages further conversation, so she accepts that and walks with him, lengthening her steps to keep up with his purposeful stride. Side by side traversing the spaceport, Yala wonders what kind of picture they make. Bodyguard and client? She doesn't actually know if Mandalorians take that kind of job. People here aren't scared of him, not like on Silken, but he's definitely inspiring a healthy respect. 

"Where are we going?" she asks, when he ignores a sign for a guesthouse with a dismissive hum. He's clearly leading her somewhere, and this whole goodbye thing is really not going how she was expecting it to go. 

"A _reliable_ guesthouse. Don't go to that one."

"Okay."

The place he does bring her to looks clean and cheery, with lanterns behind the windows. There's a mixed crowd by the fire, men and women, several ship's crews from the look of them. They quiet down when the Mandalorian walks in and speaks with the landlady, but it's a curious, cautious silence, not fear or the tension of a room about to kick off. 

Din pre-pays a room for his _friend_ for a couple of days, with the heavy implication that he expects her to be safe here and will certainly expect answers if it turns out she's not. Then he discreetly passes her a little pouch with credits that she suspects will sustain her for a while even if it takes a bit to find work. 

The guesthouse landlady returns with a room key and points to the door to the stairway, and then just like that—

"Well, I guess this is…" she plays with the room key, unsure what to say. He's done so much more for her than she had ever expected, and it feels very strange that this acquaintance will just… end, right here, with a simple goodbye. 

"Thank you," he says suddenly. She frowns at him, and he clarifies, "for this morning." he raises his injured arm a little. 

"Oh! Well that's my work. If you ever decide you need an onboard medic, well—you know where to find me," she chuckles, the awkwardness mostly dispelled. "Take care, and stay safe."

"I mean—you—it's… _yes_ ," he says, hesitating. Then: "You too." 

He turns toward her, stepping closer, and she shivers when his gloved hand comes up to cradle the nape of her neck. He leans in closer, and gently touches the forehead of his helmet against her forehead. The metal is cool and smooth, his visor just inches from her eyes. Is he looking at her, from behind there? Yala's eyes drift shut, allowing herself to think for just a moment that he is. She can hear his sigh, soft through the voice modulator. 

When he disengages slowly, she nods her head forward, chasing after him for the briefest of instances for a soft forehead knock. There's a crackle from his voice modulator, as if he huffed a surprised breath. He looks at her for another moment, chucks her under the chin with his gloved forefinger in a way that makes her stomach feel light, and then he walks out. 

Yala takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, resolutely turning her thoughts to this planet and how she will make it her home. 

"Can I have a meal in half an hour?" she asks the landlady. "In my room?" 

She looks around the taproom again, the crews hanging out there. Their attention has long since returned to their conversations, but they look friendly enough. They might be freighter crew, come to think of it. The group has that vibe. Not a bad place to start socialising. 

"Actually wait, I'll eat down here."


	5. Chapter 5

_Six years later_

Interplanetary freighter _Tranquility_ landed on Suarbi this morning after its usual six-week tour around the system, providing vital supplies between the largely undeveloped planets in the system. 

"Yala!" a voice calls when she walks into _Stellar Shipping_ 's home office. She looks around and finds the door where it the voice came from, revealing Sol Haku, who does most of the planet-side cargo registration work. She looks worried and gestures for Yala to enter her office, closing the door behind her. 

"Hey Sol, is everything okay?"

Superfluous question, since from Sol's face it clearly isn't, but Yala's just come off a six week tour, the finer points of smalltalk with people who don't live in your pocket eludes her a little. 

"There was somebody asking after you," Sol says quietly, grimacing. 

Yikes. Yala represses a grimace. 

That explains Sol's distress though. She's had to dodge the occasional crony of her old scumbag boss on Silken, trying to get some hamfisted revenge for her betraying him to his bounty hunter. They abruptly stopped coming a couple of years ago, so this is unexpected. 

"What did you tell them?"

"Company policy, we don't even confirm that we know who you are, let alone if you work for us and on which ship. But he seemed unconvinced, and I think he's still in port."

And the schedule of the _Stellar Shipping_ freighters is public knowledge, so even if he hadn't seen the giant ship land he would certainly know by now that she was dirtside.

"Crap. And I was really looking forward to some time off. OK." She thinks fast. "The _Stoic_ is sailing tomorrow morning, right? I know it's not my usual tour, but is there any way you can get me into the clinic rotation?"

Sol grimaces.

"I probably can, but Yala? It was a Mandalorian. They don't give up," Sol continues, fast and anxious, "you _know_ I want you to be safe, and the company would never give you up, but if he tracks you on the _Stoic_ and it endangers the whole ship…"

It takes Yala until the end of that sentence to work through the confused thought 'Who would cough up the fee to send a _bounty hunter_ after me?' because they hate her on Silken but spending that kind of money, let alone hiring a Mandalorian for the job? Unlikely. Finally she arrives at _Wait, what if it's Din?_

"Huh, wait. What did his armour look like?"

"All silver, unpainted. The flashiest one I've ever seen."

Hmm, that wasn't what she'd hoped to hear. Then again, it was possible that Din had upgraded. 

"How did he react when you told him you couldn't tell him anything?"

"How on earth would I tell, with the helmet?"

"You said he seemed unconvinced. How could you tell?"

Sol grimaced. "He just… stared at me. And then he sighed. Like—" she gave a deep, whole-body-heaving sigh. "Like he knew I was lying, but he was resigned to it. And then he just nodded and walked out."

Yala never met another Mandalorian more than in passing. For all she knows they would all have reacted like that, but it seemed a lot like the Mandalorian she remembered from.. What was it, five, six years ago now?

"Right. Nevermind the _Stoic_ idea. It might be a friend."

"You have a friend who's a Mandalorian?"

"I...I think I do…?" Things had gotten a little stilted at the end, and she suspected he hadn't really known what to do with the sudden and unexpected intimacy they'd arrived at. But they'd said their goodbyes friendly enough. He'd actually referred to her as friend when he rented a room for her. "Yes."

Sol gives her the galaxy's most unimpressed Look. 

Yala blushes, because there might be occasions where the true explanation could be pried from her—involving among other things, a good deal of sweet wine and an atmosphere of mutual intimate confessions—but this isn't one of them. 'I betrayed my boss to him and he rescued me and gave me a ride here and we had some scorching hot almost-sex that I still fantasise about' just isn't something she'd like to share at this point. 

"You said he's still in port?" she says quickly, before Sol can read the whole thing off of her face. "Can you call up the portmaster's bay map?" 

This isn't public information, but Sol has access to it, and Yala runs through the list. Small, older ship, probably on the outside of port for preference, might well be in need of repair services…

" _Razor Crest_ . That's him," she says, still relieved. "Yeah, all right, don't bother with the _Stoic_ , I'll take my leave as scheduled. Do we know what day the _Tranquility_ is going to be sailing?"

"Not before the end of next week. She'll have to wait for an inbound shipment that's on the _Quietude_ right now, and they still have a few planets to go on their run."

"OK. I'll check in with you next week."

Sol does not look like this conversation has put her mind at ease. 

"Are you really gonna…?"

"I'm gonna go find out what he wants."

His ship is, as expected, in a quiet outer repair bay. The bay door is locked, but the _Stellar Shipping Medic_ assignation on her Ident-chip opens almost all doors in this particular spaceport. 

Inside the bay there are no helper droids here, just one armoured man crawled half under his ship to weld something at an awkward angle. The armour is different—some deep silver metal that has a sort of gleam even under a layer of grime.

Yala couldn't say how she's so sure it's him. Din. Something about the way he holds his body just feels familiar. 

He can't see her from this angle, and it's never a good idea to surprise a man holding a plasma torch, so she finds some old crates to sit on against the wall of the bay, in the sun. 

She turns her face up to the sun, basking in it after a couple of weeks mostly spent in space on the big freighter she works on. When they're planetside for the schedule cargo drop and pickup, she's usually working her way through whatever medical cases have been lined up in the local whatever-passes-for-clinic. 

A soft trill sound draws her attention, and—

It's a small creature, with huge eyes and ears. It has to be very young, still. It's clad in a big heavy robe and slowly toddling toward her from the ship. She's never seen its like. 

Wait, from the ship? Really? The Mandalorian had it aboard with him?

The intent, intelligent gaze fixed on her makes it immediately obvious that it's no kind of pet, but a baby of some species she's not familiar with. As hard as it is to believe that the man she remembers would have a baby on his ship with him. 

She moves to crouch on the ground, closer to its eye height. 

"Hello. I'm Yala," she says, pitching her voice soft and warm, like she might speak to a shy village child. 

The child blinks at her, and she twitches a little when she has a thought, or a memory, that's not her own. Something vague and jumbled with strong arms and gentle words and, for some reason, a small metal ball being dropped into her hands. 

"Oh." She blinks a couple of times. Telepathy? "Is that how you speak?"

The child coos. Yala sits down against the wall, smiling at it. 

She's been so focused on her strange little visitor that she didn't notice the man turning off the plasma torch and getting out from under the ship. When she does spot him—did he get the telepathic images too? Is that how he became aware of her presence?—the way he walks is unmistakably the man she remembers. Strange how he's still so familiar to her after all this time. 

He walks up to just slightly too close to where she's still sitting on the ground, having to strain her neck to look him in the faceplate. He's just as imposing as she remembers, the blankness of his helmet just as intimidating, and looking up at him like this floods her with memories of what they got up to together six years ago. There's a familiar thrill in her stomach. 

It's hard to imagine he's not aware—he certainly enjoyed what this kind of thing did to her plenty, back then—and now he's _taking off his welding gloves_ , fuck, this _can't_ be by accident— she hears herself make a tiny squeak sound and looks back down to the ground. These are not thoughts she'd like to have in front of a _telepathic child_ , thank you very much. 

He still hasn't said anything, but then his hand comes into view, and she takes it, gets pulled to her feet. His other hand lands on her shoulder, thumb just above her collar, and he's standing very close. With any other man she might think he meant to kiss her. Instead, his head tips down to hers, until he touches his helmet very gently to her forehead. 

"Yala. You look well," he says as he straightens up, and even the voice modulator can't strip how pleased he sounds. It breaks the tension, somehow makes this feel less loaded. They're just friends, meeting again after a couple of years. 

"Thanks! You too," she chuckles, rapping her knuckles on his beskar chestplate. "Big upgrade."

The child makes a trilling noise, and they both look down to be met with outstretched arms, an obvious request to be picked up. Din does so without hesitation, clearly comfortable with nestling the little thing into the crook of his arm. Yala is _desperate_ to ask, but it seems too direct. 

"First time you've been back here, thought you'd drop in on me?" She chatters as the three of them walk toward the ship. 

"I was here briefly three years ago," he says. 

She suddenly remembers that moment three years ago when she came back from a 10-week tour. She'd been told about an enforcer from Silken that showed up, asked questions about her, and then vanished. 

He could have left a message, but she understands why he didn't. What kind of space was there for her in his life? He has a mission, a calling, that doesn't allow for… well. Whatever might have been if she'd stayed in his life. Though she'd never have thought he'd have space for a small green telepathic baby, either.

The inside of his ship still looks much the same, though more spacious without a set of carbonised bounties taking up space. He goes to the little fold-out table by the galley nook and puts the child on the table. Turns to look at where she's still standing at the top of the ramp. 

"You said—when we said goodbye, you—" he takes a deep breath and then turns away to take a container of something out of the fridge and gives it to the child, which purrs happily and stuffs berries into its mouth. Then he pours a cup of water and sets it down on the side of the empty fold-down seat. Offers it to her with a gesture, inviting. He picks up a couple of tools and puts them away. Stalling, she thinks. It's a strange look on him. Finally he sits down himself, opposite the place with the cup. 

"You said that if I ever—had need of an onboard medic…" he lets that trail for a second. "I know you have a life here on Suarbi now, but he could—" he glances at the child, which is staring at him intently, "— _we_ would…"

Without really realising that there was a threshold she was waiting at, she steps over it, into the hold of his ship. Sits down on the seat and takes a sip of water. 

He settles himself a little more comfortably, his shoulders relaxing. 

Do the Mandalorians have any kind of 'offering a guest water' hospitality culture? Yala has no idea, but it seems unlikely with their helmet customs. Her people, in as much as the amorphous group of long-haul spacers she hails from can be called a culture, _do_ have such a custom, and she wonders if he somehow knew or guessed that. 

The child makes a happy little purr sound when she puts the cup back down, and she gets that visual again, a small metal ball being dropped into her hands, and a wash of _warm_ and _safe_ and _welcome_ and _acceptance_ . She's not really sure how to interpret it, if the baby is feeling those things toward her, or if it correctly interpreted that her accepting water signified _she_ feels them. 

_Does_ she want to come with them?

This is not like Silken, when she'd been trying to leave for years but her corrupt boss controlled the spaceport. She has a life here that she won't walk away from lightly. On the other hand, _Stellar Shipping_ would probably take her back at any point, so whatever she decides now doesn't have to be permanent. 

"All right," Yala finally says. 

The Mandalorian sitting here, patiently handing the little green baby the berries that roll out of its fumbly fingers, is clearly in a very different place than he was six years ago. She's curious about what's going on that he came back to invite her as crew. 

"I'm listening."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for going on this ride with me and leaving lovely comments! I wanted to leave this story vaguely canon compliant—at least, until The Mandalorian episode 6—and this gave me a nice way wrap things up. I hope you enjoy the possibility this creates for the future :-)
> 
> ...I am also writing a Mando-point of view companion piece. So. That's happening. [Read it here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22008088)

**Author's Note:**

> Please feed(back) your writer?
> 
> And/or come see me on [tumblr](https://primarybufferpanel.tumblr.com/)


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